The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 128

Chapter 128

Cynthia’s POV

“Kiss me again.”

The words tore out of me, raw and ragged, a command born from years of starvation.

Ethan’s response was immediate, brutal like he had been expecting me to say that, like he was actually wishing he hadn't cut off that kiss back in the car, and perhaps done what he needed to do there.

I knew he wanted me, I could see it through his pants in the car when he kissed me.

His mouth slammed into mine, teeth clashing, tongue invading like he owned me, like he was reclaiming every inch he’d neglected. I tasted the desperation we’d both buried for too long.

I clawed at his shirt, buttons popping, fabric ripping as I yanked it open. His hands were just as savage, fisting my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat. He bit down hard on the tendon there, sucking until I cried out, the pain blooming into fire that shot straight between my legs.

We crashed onto the couch by the fireplace, the leather cold against my back until his weight pinned me, his body a furnace. My gown was ruined anyway, so I didn’t care when he tore the strap, baring my breast to the heat of the flames and the heat of his mouth.

He sucked my nipple hard, teeth scraping, tongue swirling, until I was arching off the couch, grinding against the rigid length trapped in his trousers.

“Fuck, Cynthia,” he growled against my skin, voice wrecked. “You’re soaking through my pants.”

I was. I could feel my thighs slick, my core throbbing with a need so violent it scared me.

What did he expect? I hadn’t had sex in over five years.

I reached between us, fumbling with his belt, zipper, freeing him.

I almost gasped at the sight of him, I almost forgot what it looked like, and to be honest, it looked thicker…It was hot, pulsing in my hand, and I stroked him roughly, thumb smearing the bead of precum over the head until he hissed and thrust into my fist.

He shoved my gown up to my waist, ripping my panties aside with one brutal tug. No gentleness, no hesitation. Two fingers plunged into me without warning, curling, pumping, stretching me open while his thumb ground against my clit.

“You are dripping Cynthia”

I just wanted him to shut the fuck up and make me cum.

I came instantly, shocking and violent, my back bowing, a scream ripping from my throat as I clenched around his fingers, soaking his hand.

He carried me to the kitchen, set me on the cold marble island, spread my thighs wide and sank to his knees. His mouth was on me before I could catch my breath — tongue ruthless, sucking my clit, lapping at the mess we’d made until I was sobbing, thighs clamped around his head, coming again so hard I saw stars.

He stood, spun me around, bent me over the counter, and took me from behind again, slower this time but no less deep, his hands roaming my body like he was memorizing every curve he’d ignored for years. I pushed back against him, greedy, taking everything he gave until we both shattered once more.

Upstairs, in the master bedroom facing the dark, roaring ocean, he stripped me bare and laid me on the bed like I was something sacred. Then he devoured me again with his mouth, fingers, cock — literally worshipping every inch until I was begging, tears streaming, body wracked with pleasure I didn’t know was possible.

When he finally slid into me again, face to face, slow and deep, eyes locked, it broke something open inside me. We moved together like we were trying to fuse souls, every thrust a confession, every gasp a forgiveness neither of us had earned yet.

I came apart three more times, each climax ripping through me harder than the last, until I was shaking, sobbing his name, utterly destroyed in the most beautiful way.

“I love you, Cynthia… fuck! I love you!”

Afterward, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, his arms locked around me like he’d never let go, I realized with blinding clarity:

This was the best night of my life.

And I don’t regret any bit of this.